


The Revolt Inside Me

by Imaginary_Bomb



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Typical Abuse, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Herald of Andraste, M/M, Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, POV Alternating, POV Original Character, Platonic Relationships, Rite of Tranquility, Smut, Templar Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Templar/Mage Relationship, Tranquil Herald of Andraste
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imaginary_Bomb/pseuds/Imaginary_Bomb
Summary: “Sometimes your tongue is removed, sometimes you still it of your own accord. Sometimes you live, sometimes you die. Sometimes you have a name, sometimes you are named for what—not who—you are. The story always looks a little different, depending on who is telling it.”— Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream HouseGwythren is a Tranquil attending the Conclave with their guardian, Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth, out of the hope the Divine will give mages justice. But the Conclave explodes, leaving Gwythren at the center of the chaos, in possession of magic they haven't wielded in ten years, and bearing accusations of conspiracy.The masses denominate Gwythren the Herald of Andraste. Under the burden of this title and the scrutiny that comes with it, Gwythren must grapple with their newly learned agency and the concepts of faith and personhood. Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth will be at their side, but the path to victory will come with no shortage of challenges.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Elven character/Iron Bull, Herald/Iron Bull, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Non-binary character/Iron Bull, Non-canon Herald/Iron Bull
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. I:I The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> title from the in-game song "Rise".
> 
> some notes and expanded warnings (CONTAINS SPOILERS):  
> 1\. Gwythren is the non-binary character and uses they/he pronouns. the narrative will refer to Gwythren with they/them, most characters will use he/him as that is how they perceive Gwythren.
> 
> 2\. Gwythren is the Herald of Andraste but is not made Inquisitor. my secondary oc, Wyeth, a templar, becomes Inquisitor, hence the complicated relationship tags.
> 
> 3\. i will be exploring my own take on Tranquil with this fic, although i do not believe any of it is disproved by canon. i do not think Tranquil are completely without emotion or agency. this is what i will explore with Gwythren.  
> i will endeavor to handle Gwythren's Tranquility with the utmost respect, but if reading about a Tranquil oc (especially one that enters into a romantic/sexual relationship) makes you uncomfortable, i would recommend skipping this fic.
> 
> 4\. Gwythren/Bull and Wyeth/Dorian are endgame. Gwythren is Tranquil but Bull does not take advantage of this, and i do believe Tranquil are capable of giving informed consent under the right circumstances.  
> Wyeth is a templar. he was made one against his will and is what i would consider a good templar as he protects mages (even going so far as to help them escape). he does not use his abilities to take advantage of Dorian in any way, and as Dorian does not have the experience with templars as southern mages do, i don't believe the typical controversy is present here.  
> however, if these dynamics bother you, i would recommend skipping this fic.
> 
> 5\. not a Cullen-, Cassandra-, or Solas-positive fic. i try to avoid outright bashing but the bias will likely come through. i do not believe Gwythren or Wyeth have any reason to like or trust Cullen or Cassandra anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can see Gwythren on my blog [here](https://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/612317420311494656/gwythren-theyhe-28-57-romancing-iron-bull).  
> [moodboard](https://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/626540811524390912/the-revolt-inside-me-sometimes-your-tongue-is).
> 
> warnings for depictions of death and graphic violence  
> Gwythren does not suffer any abuse in this chapter beyond what is already canon
> 
> many thanks to [Emily](https://professionalfruitgremlin.tumblr.com/) for proofing this chapter for me!!

“I am alone here in my own mind.

There is no map

and there is no road.”

**—Anne Sexton, _The Complete Poems_**

Gwythren wakes in darkness.

But no, not total darkness. There are torches. Gwythren can see the glints on the damp stone walls and iron bars. A dungeon.

There is a swooping sensation in Gwythren’s stomach. _Not a Circle dungeon_ , Gwythren reminds themself. The Markham Circle was dismantled to its foundations early in the war, and Gwythren has not seen the inside of a Circle dungeon since.

There are guards, standing erect on the other side of the bars. They wear sturdy armor, absent the flaming sword of the Order.

Not a Circle dungeon.

Gwythren exhales softly. They are lying on a pallet, canvas rough against their ear, straw poking through. Their hands are bound in front of them. They are jailed, then. But why?

They search back in their memory and find it shrouded in fog. _That_ is odd. A life of Tranquility is one of clarity. Gwythren has never had trouble with memory since receiving the brand. The matter warrants investigation, circumstances permitting.

Gwythren’s palm prickles and something flashes in the corner of their eye. They look down to their bound hands and—Gwythren’s eyes widen. It has been a decade since Gwythren possessed magic, but they know the pulse of it, the delicate whisper of the Fade. They know what they see, but they do not know how. Gwythren cannot hold back the noise of confusion that bubbles from their throat.

The noise alerts the guards, and one of them goes to the dungeon door and calls out. The other opens Gwythren’s cell, takes them by the arm. Gwythren attempts to stand, but the guard does nothing to assist, so Gwythren simply lets themself be dragged. They are put on their knees in the center of the room just as the door bursts open and two women enter.

The first is a warrior in Seeker armor, and Gwythren’s spine straightens. The second hangs back, a hood obscuring her face.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the Seeker sneers, stalking around Gwythren’s prone form.

Gwythren does not answer. If the Seeker has determined to kill them, there are no words Gwythren could use to parry her blade.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” The anguish in her voice gives way to steel, her finger accusing. “Except for you.”

Gwythren blinks slowly. The Seeker thinks them guilty. Things must be truly dire for that to be the case. Mages may be blamed for every catastrophe under the sun, but Tranquil are as good as furniture. It would be like accusing a chair. As long has Gwythren as been Tranquil, no one has accused them of any machinations.

“Tell us who gave you your orders.”

That clears some of Gwythren’s confusion. She thinks them an accomplice, an accessory. That makes more sense. Gwythren is no more capable of responding, however. They came to the Conclave with Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth and his small band of Templars, mages, and Tranquil. Gwythren hesitates to name the Knight-Lieutenant. He might be capable of exonerating Gwythren, but they have no desire to direct suspicions at him.

Gwythren does not believe the Knight-Lieutenant would do anything to destroy the Conclave. He had been hopeful. He wanted peace, he wanted justice for mages. He would not have threatened that chance.

No, the Knight-Lieutenant would not do such a thing, and neither would he order Gwythren to. Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth cares for Gwythren, protects them. He would not use Gwythren in such a way.

Apparently tired of waiting for an answer, the Seeker grabs Gwythren’s shackled wrist. “Explain this,” she hisses.

Gwythren’s palm flares with the mysterious magic. “I cannot,” Gwythren says simply. “I do not know what that is or how it got there.”

Her grip tightens on their arm. “You’re lying!” she growls.

Gwythren does not bother to reply. Tranquil do not lie.

The hooded woman steps forward, places her hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “We _need_ him, Cassandra,” she insists, voice low but insistent.

Cassandra. Seeker Cassandra. As in, Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. Gwythren is, perhaps, fucked.

As Cassandra paces away, the hooded woman kneels in front of Gwythren, meeting their eyes. This is so unusual as to be shocking. “Do you remember what happened?”

Gwythren closes their eyes. Their memory is still clouded, but images begin to coalesce. “A woman. We are running. From… something? Many legs. Fear. _She_ was afraid.” But no, not just her. Gwythren remembers the sourness of fear inside themself. Gwythren opens their eyes. “Nothing else.” There is no need to tell them something impossible.

“A woman…” the hooded one muses.

The Seeker puts a hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the rift.”

The hooded woman—Leliana, the Hero of Ferelden’s companion and Left Hand of the Divine—nods and leaves the dungeon. Gwythren is deeply in over their head. They find themself wishing the Knight-Lieutenant _was_ here; it would give Gwythren _some_ legitimacy, perhaps, to have a Templar on their side.

Cassandra undoes the shackles on Gwythren’s wrists. There is no need to keep them contained; Tranquil don’t resist.

Gwythren _won’t_ resist unless they need to.

Gwythren follows the Seeker out of the dungeon, then out of the Chantry above it. The magic in their hand sparks, a small shock. The sky is green and burning.

It is a rift, bigger than Gwythren has ever known, ever heard of.

“We call it the Breach,” Seeker Pentaghast informs them. “A massive rift that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Explosion. That’s what they think Gwythren responsible for? Gwythren frowns minutely. Perhaps an explosion _could_ do that. But how much magic would that even require?

The Seeker turns to them, expression hard, scrutinizing. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Gwythren opens their mouth to respond—pain lances up their arm, whiting out their thoughts. When they come to, they are on their knees, a scream dying in their throat. Their lungs are seizing, their vision blurred.

Cassandra is kneeling before them, determination in her voice as she speaks. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

The key. She suspects the mark may be able to… do _something_ about the Breach. Close it? Stop it from spreading? Banish the demons that are surely pouring out of it?

“It is our only chance. And yours.”

A chance. A chance that will likely kill Gwythren, but also a chance that may save them. No way to know until it is done—and little choice.

Gwythren breathes deep, flexes their hand. The mark remains quiet. They meet the Seeker’s eyes. Hers widen, skip away, but Gwythren does not avert their gaze. “I understand.”

“Then…?” Hopeful.

Gwythren nods. “I will do what I can.”

She exhales, stands, helps Gwythren to their feet. She leads them away, through the village laid out before the Chantry. Villagers rush around, surely with no idea what to do, but feeling they must do something. They turn as the Seeker and her captive pass—in their eyes: fear, suspicion, hate, and cautious hope.

There are a number of bodies on the ground. Gwythren cannot tell the injured from the dead.

“The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia,” Cassandra is saying, almost to herself. Grief bleeds from her voice. “The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

They approach a bridge leading out of the village. She turns to them. “We lash out like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

An apology, perhaps.

“There will be a trial,” the Seeker tells them. A promise, for what it’s worth. She turns away. “Come. It is not far.”

Gwythren follows her. “Not far.”

“We must test your mark on something smaller than the Breach,” she says, and nothing more.

~

They trek through the snow; it is thick around Gwythren’s ankles, frosted over and sharp. Soldiers run past them. Cries of anguish and agony fill the air. Masses—chunks? unidentifiable—fall from the Breach in burning arcs. The Seeker looks at the sky, a frown folding her lips. The mark in Gwythren’s hand pulses, throbs, but does not incapacitate them.

“You know how I survived,” Gwythren probes.

She glances back at them for a moment. Her voice is hushed. “They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Gravely, she says, “You will see soon enough.”

They step onto a bridge. Soldiers ahead of them salute at the Seeker’s approach. Halfway across, the bridge explodes in a burst of green magic.

Gwythren tucks their head into their arms, curls into a ball as they tumble down with the debris. They land on ice that thankfully does not crack under the impact. Pain blooms over their body, but Gwythren pushes to their feet. It is not the worst they have endured.

A shade is advancing on them. The Seeker draws her weapons. “Stay behind me!”

An order Gwythren is not inclined to ignore. But the ice bubbles before their feet, purple and murky. A clawed hand reaches out of it. Gwythren cannot avoid this fight, after all.

Putting distance quickly between them and the emerging shade, they cast about for anything to use as a weapon. By a miracle, there are daggers lying on the ground not far away. Gwythren dives for them just in time.

Gwythren has only faced enemies a handful of times and only since the beginning of the war: the mob that descended on the Circle, Templars who attacked their group, bandits who attempted to raid the tower, apostates meaning to conscript them to their cause. Gwythren has tried not to kill when they could, but this is a demon. They do not have to hold back.

They don’t.

Gwythren’s mind is clear, their feet quick, their blades quicker. The shade shrieks, its claws slash. It lands a hit on Gwythren’s shoulder. It is the only hit.

Gwythren stands over its disintegrating corpse, adrenaline buzzing through their veins. It is a visceral sensation that has become common since the war, and Gwythren savors it.

“Drop your weapons!” the Seeker demands, sword pointing to their throat.

Gwythren’s grip instinctively loosens on their daggers, then clenches firm again before the blades fall. It isn’t logical to relinquish their weapons. “You expect me to be defenseless.”

The Seeker was unable to protect them. They see by her strained expression that she knows this. If she really _needs_ them, she will see the logic of their being armed.

She squints at them suspiciously, at their blades. She is wondering why a Tranquil knows how to fight.

Gwythren does not tell her of their time spent in the Circle’s storage room, practicing with daggers filched from the armory, always returned before they were missed. It was something to keep their hands busy, nothing Gwythren thought they would ever _need_ to know.

Gwythren does not tell her of when the war came. When Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth trusted them to defend the Circle, the mages and Tranquil there who couldn’t, wouldn’t fight. They don’t tell her about using a skill they never thought they’d need—and being _good_ at it, at becoming as sharp and swift as the blades in their hands when they’d always been thought dull and slow.

They stand in silence, at an impasse. Eventually she concedes, not happy about it, but acknowledging the truth of Gwythren’s words.

They follow the frozen river. They fight more demons, wraiths. The Seeker takes the lead, but by necessity, allows Gwythren to guard her back. Gwythren does not fail her. They encounter no more soldiers, only dead-eyed bodies.

As they climb the steep bank back to the road, sounds of fighting reach Gwythren’s ears. They twirl their daggers, ready.

In the ruin of a building, soldiers fight demons spilling from a rift. Gwythren follows the Seeker from the shadows. The demons are dispatched in short order with their and the Seeker’s help, but before Gwythren can catch their breath, a hand grabs their wrist.

“Quickly! Before more come through!”

Their marked hand is pointed at the rift. Gwythren does not know what they are expected to do. They stare into the rift, thoughts racing, wondering how to urge the mark—

Magic surges from their hand. It _pulls_ , pouring into the rift. The Fade flowing through them, a sensation Gwythren has not felt in ten years. The rift flashes, nearly blinding, then collapses in on itself, sending out one last wave of energy.

Gwythren’s wrist is released and they stumble back, trying to regain their breath.

“That was well done.”

They look up. An elf. A staff on his back. A mage. His hands are folded in front of him, a placid smile on his face.

Gwythren blinks at him, then looks down at their hand.

The elf speaks again. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The gentle lilt of his voice reminds Gwythren of the Markham Circle’s Knight-Commander. She always spoke softly, surely, utterly convinced of her righteousness, her rightness. An apprentice killed her, their staff to her head, her head to the stone floor. Gwythren’s shoulders trembles; they are not sure they trust this elf’s voice.

Cassandra steps forward. “Meaning it could close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly,” the elf says.

They are in the middle of a conversation. Gwythren pulls themself from their memories just in time for the elf to turn to them and say, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

It is a statement that brings with it a sense of foreboding.

A dwarf laughs, the dwarf with the crossbow who took out a shade that got behind Gwythren’s back. “Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” To Gwythren, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” His mouth thins when his eyes fall on Gwythren’s brand, then he smiles and winks at the Seeker.

She scoffs.

Gwythren is fast losing track of their situation. “You are with the Chantry.”

The elf laughs. “Is that a serious question?”

The dwarf is fighting with Chantry forces and beside Seeker Pentaghast. Gwythren does not think theirs is an unreasonable inquiry.

Varric grins, wry, straightens his cuffs. “Technically, I’m a prisoner, just like you.”

Cassandra sneers. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly, that is no longer necessary.” It is a dismissal.

Varric does not take it. “Yet, here I am! Lucky for you, considering current events.”

They are losing perspective. The Breach still looms overhead. “I closed the rift. Now?”

“Now we go to meet Leliana,” the Seeker says. She glares at Varric, is more direct. “Your help thus far is appreciated, Tethras, but—”

Varric rolls his eyes. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore.” Patronizingly, “You need me.”

She spins on her heel, a disgusted noise growled from her throat.

The elf gives Gwythren a slight bow. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric saunters forward. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.”

Gwythren tilts their head at Solas. “You seem to know a great deal about it all,” they venture with their most neutral voice.

“Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra says, as if Gwythren hasn’t gleaned that from his battered travel pack and well-equipped staff—but no one expects a Tranquil to be observant. “He is well-versed in such matters.”

“Technically _all_ mages are now apostates, Seeker,” he says mildly. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage.”

Gwythren tenses. That tone, as if Circle mages’ lack of experience is their _own_ fault.

Solas continues, “I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

“If I can close the Breach, I will,” Gwythren says; that much they are willing to promise.

Solas nods, then says to Cassandra, “Seeker, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I’ve seen. Your prisoner is—” he fumbles “—no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

He speaks as if he is the authority. Perhaps he is. He isn’t a _Circle mage_ , after all.

The Seeker sighs. “Understood.” She walks briskly away. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

Varric winks at Gwythren. “Well, Bianca’s excited.”

Gwythren does not ask who Bianca is. They aren’t sure they want to know.

They make their way down the bank, fight the shades and wraiths that appear before them, then hike up the other side.

Solas looks curiously at Gwythren. It makes their neck prickle. “You are from the Circle,” he says. Assumes.

Not a wrong assumption, necessarily. Gwythren almost says yes, then changes their mind. “I am _from_ the Markham alienage, but I have lived in the Circle for most of my life, yes.”

Solas nods. “But not anymore,” he prompts.

Gwythren looks at the Seeker’s back, decides she is far enough ahead not to hear. They lower their voice, anyway, take a step closer to Solas. Their caution might be revealing too much to Solas’s astute gaze, but it’s more important to keep potentially leverageable information from a Seeker.

“The Markham Circle rose up at the beginning of the war, mostly unanimously. The Markham citizens reduced it to rubble shortly after. Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth took those of us not suited for fighting to the Ansburg Circle to build a defensive shelter for us and any who sought us out. I remained there until the Knight-Lieutenant requested I come with him to the Conclave.”

It is a lot of words. More than Gwythren typically speaks at a time. But they do not think it is too revealing. Solas nods in commiseration. He is an apostate, and his disdain for the Circle likely means he does not support them.

Further conversation is thwarted by another demon attack. “I hope Leliana made it through all this,” Cassandra says when the last shade is slain.

“She’s resourceful, Seeker,” Varric assures her.

They reach the forward camp. Leliana is there—arguing with a chancellor.

“We will do no such thing!” the chancellor barks.

“The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Leliana insists, arms folded tightly. “It is our only chance!”

“You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility.”

She scoffs, disbelieving. “ _I_ have caused trouble?”

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy—haven’t you all done enough already?”

“You are not in command here,” she says lowly, dangerously.

The chancellor does not heed this danger. “Enough! I will not have it!” He sees their approach. “As grand chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

So much for the trial the Seeker promised.

But it seems they are wrong to assume the Seeker would submit to any orders. “You are a glorified clerk! A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

Gwythren wonders where he gets the gall—the balls—to say such things. Surely the Hands of the Divine outrank him by a vast margin.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor,” Leliana retorts. Her stony expression wavers, voice turns soft. “As you well know.”

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement and obey _her_ orders on the matter.”

Even Gwythren knows they have no time for that. They see Solas and Varric exchange exasperated looks. _Humans_.

“I would think closing the Breach is the more pressing issue,” Gwythren says.

The chancellor’s glare snaps to their face, eyes widening when they fall on the brand. He gathers himself quickly. “ _You_ brought this on us in the first place!”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cassandra insists.

“How?” His voice is tired now, thin. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We must get to the Temple. It’s the quickest route.”

Route?

“But not the safest,” Leliana cuts in. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

The Seeker shakes her head. “We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.”

“Listen to me,” the chancellor pleads. “Abandon this now, before more lives are lost.” He is scared. He cares. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he just wants to avoid more death.

The Breach flashes in the sky, and the mark flashes with it. The pain does not take Gwythren to their knees, but it crackles up their arm, scattering their thoughts. They gasp, suck in a breath. _Bear it. You have borne worse_.

When the pain passes, Gwythren looks up to find all eyes on them.

“How do you think we should proceed?” the Seeker asks.

Gwythren blinks. “You… are asking me.”

She frowns, as if considering the absurdity of her action, then shakes her head. “You are the one we must keep alive, and since we cannot agree on our own…”

They are truly desperate, then, to ask a Tranquil’s opinion. Do they think the mark has freed Gwythren’s mind?

No time to dwell. Gwythren gathers their thoughts, the edges still fuzzy. They do not like the idea of using soldiers as a distraction; the Knight-Lieutenant would not like it. But. A squad lost in the mountains? And the Seeker would abandon them? Of course, she must be practical. The quickest route. But Gwythren knows the Knight-Lieutenant would not leave them.

“The mountain path,” Gwythren decides.

The Seeker frowns, but Varric nods approvingly.

Cassandra turns to Leliana. “Bring everyone in the valley. Everyone.”

She nods.

As Cassandra leads them away, the chancellor mutters, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

On the Seeker’s head. Perhaps he has realized the futility of blaming a Tranquil.

Perhaps Gwythren will not be executed after all.

But that’s wishful thinking. No one thinks twice of a Tranquil’s death.

~

They ascend the mountain.

“So, _are_ you innocent?” Varric asks them.

“I do not remember what happened.” The memories have gotten no clearer. It doesn’t make sense. Did they really come out of the Fade? Perhaps that explains it. Such a thing should not be possible, Tranquil or no.

Varric chuckles. “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.”

The Seeker scoffs. “That’s what _you_ would have done.”

“It’s more believable—and less prone to result in premature execution.”

Gwythren doubts this but does not say so. They recognize the dwarf is trying to lighten the mood—as much as it can be.

They fight their way through the tunnels. They find the soldiers, some of them dead but most alive. There’s a rift. The mark works a second time; Gwythren is still unsure how they do it.

Solas hums, considering them. “Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric drawls.

 _Yes_ , Gwythren thinks. _Let’s hope_. Hope might be all they have. Two closed rifts hardly _assure_ proficiency.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra,” a soldier says. The captain, most likely. “I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. He insisted we come this way.”

The soldier seems to notice Gwythren for the first time, blinks at them. “The prisoner? Then you…?”

Gwythren bows their head. “I wished to save you, if we could.”

She bows in return, catching Gwythren off-guard. “Then you have my sincere gratitude.”

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment,” the Seeker says. “Go, while you still can.”

The soldier salutes. “At once. Let’s move!”

“The path before us appears to be clear of demons, as well,” Solas observes.

“Let’s hurry, before that changes,” the Seeker says. “Down the ladder is the way to the Temple.”

They make their way slowly down the steep incline, rocks loose beneath their feet.

“So…” Varric begins. He does not seem to like silence. “Holes in the Fade don’t just _accidentally_ happen, right?”

“If enough magic is brought to bear,” Solas replies, “it _is_ possible.”

“But there are easier ways to make things explode.”

“That… is true.”

“We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past,” Cassandra says, and the group falls silent.

As the Temple looms ahead, the Seeker whispers, “The Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“What’s left of it,” Varric mutters.

It is an understatement. There is barely _anything_ left. Nothing but scorched stone, burning corpses, and piles of rubble. There are massive protrusions of jutting out of the ground like a frozen wave; they glimmer with flickering pulses of green.

They approach a break in the stone, their one place of ingress. As they enter, Cassandra says, “That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you.”

A crater opens before them, the rift hanging overhead, the Breach further beyond it. Gwythren has no idea how they are expected to reach it.

It seems they are not.

“This rift is the first,” Solas says, “and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

 _Perhaps_.

Leliana and her agents appear, and Seeker Pentaghast orders them into position. “Let’s find a way down. And be careful.”

As if any of them are inclined not to be.

They make their way into the crater. A voice echoes out of the rift. “Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra says, wondering.

“At a guess,” Solas says, “the person who created the Breach.”

It can’t mean anything good that they are hearing this voice.

They pass smaller protrusions, glowing red. The sensation of crawling spiders erupts over Gwythren’s skin.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” the dwarf says.

 _Red_ lyrium?

“I see it, Tethras,” she snaps.

“But what’s it doing here?” he hisses.

Solas hums. “Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the Temple, corrupted it…”

“Eugh, it’s evil. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

Such a thing did not even cross Gwythren’s mind. They rub their hands over their arms. They want as far away from this _red lyrium_ as possible.

They clamber down into the last layer of the crater. Images flash in the air, projected by the rift. A tall shadowy figure with glowing eyes circles a dangling body. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Someone! Help me!”

Cassandra sucks in a sharp breath. “Divine Justinia.”

Gwythren’s silhouette appears above them.

“Run while you can!” the image of Justinia cries. “Warn them!”

The shadowy figure twists, eyes burning. “We have an intruder. Slay the elf.”

The vision fades. The Seeker grabs Gwythren’s arm, spins them around. “You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she… Is this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Gwythren breathes, does not jerk their arm from the Seeker’s vice of a grip. “I do not remember.”

The Seeker does not appear inclined to accept this, but Solas cuts her off. “Echoes of what happened here,” he says. “The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily.”

He turns to face them, taking the staff from his back. “With the mark, I believe the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

The Seeker releases Gwythren’s arm; they step quickly away from her. “That means demons!” she calls to the soldiers positioned around them. “Stand ready!”

Gwythren lifts their hand. How to open it? It seems all it takes to _close_ the rifts is to _think_ about how to close them, so doing it the other way—

Power erupts from the mark, surging towards the rift. Gwythren digs their feet into the ground, teeth gritted. It feels as if their skin is being split open, it feels as if all their mana—the echo of the mana they no longer have—is being siphoned from their veins. Black encroaches on their vision.

The power breaks, and Gwythren stumbles, gasping. Their ears ring, and beyond that, a tremble in their chest—the laugh of a pride demon.

They blink the white spots from their eyes, and before them looms the biggest demon they have ever seen. “Now!” Cassandra shouts. Arrows fly, and soldiers leap forward with battle cries.

Gwythren unsheathes their blades as one of Solas’s barriers wraps around them.

The battle is long. Gwythren has managed to avoid taking too many hits thus far, but they are going through their health potions now. Solas is hurling so many barriers and healing spells, he barely has mana to spare on offensive attacks. Varric scrambles to collect fallen arrows as he runs out far too quickly.

Gwythren flings themself out of the way of the demon’s lightning whips. Those who are hit fall and do not get up.

They need to find a way to end this. Their numbers are dwindling, there is so much blood. Cassandra takes a hit to her shield, falls, takes too long struggling to her feet.

Gwythren reaches out to the rift again, nearly crumples, but the demon does, falling to its knees. It won’t be there long. Gwythren slips through the soldiers, twists around a swipe of the demon’s claws, leaps with all their strength, lands on the demon’s shoulders, clings with their thighs. This has to work.

They plunge their knives into the demon’s eyes. It shrieks, piercing Gwythren’s ears. They raise their knives again, scythe through the demon’s throat, dig, carve, slash—a grip coated in dark blood slips from the hilt, moves to wrap around the horns, steadies themself as the demon thrashes its head. Don’t let up with the other dagger, plunge deep, as deep as they can.

The demon crashes to the ground. Gwythren is thrown from its back, rolls through the dirt, vaguely aware they’ve lost their other dagger. They lay where they stop. The demon is in its death throes somewhere outside their range of clouded vision. They lay still. They breathe.

Gentle fingers wrap around Gwythren’s arm, pull them to their feet. Purple eyes, pale pointed face. Solas. Gwythren pulls away, staggers. The warm wash of a healing spell flows through them, and they nearly collapse.

“Do it!”

Do it?

They struggle to grab a coherent thought.

Right.

The rift.

The Breach.

They look up. Nothing but a mass of green. They raise their hand. Wrong one. Raise the other. Send a thought, let the energy pour out of them.

Gwythren falls into blinding light, then to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr user morningstarfang made a LOVELY edit of gwythren which you can view [here](https://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/627025368418746368/morningstarfang-hero-aesthetics)
> 
> edits 1.21.21


	2. I.II The Knight-Lieutenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can see Wyeth on my blog [here](https://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/190688147205/wyeth-hehim-43-61-romancing-dorian-he-was).  
> [moodboard](https://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/629436854126690304/the-revolt-inside-me-those-who-oppose-thee-shall).
> 
> warnings for depictions of death and graphic violence.  
>   
> many thanks to [Emily](https://professionalfruitgremlin.tumblr.com/) for proofing this chapter for me!!  
> 

“Those who oppose thee

Shall know the wrath of heaven.

Field and forest shall burn,

The seas shall rise and devour them,

The wind shall tear their nations

From the face of the earth,

Lightning shall rain down from the sky,

They shall cry out to their false gods

And find silence.”

**_—Andraste 7:19_ **

Wyeth and his group are halfway up the mountain when the Temple explodes, dislodging half the mountainside above them with a searing flash of green light.

Wyeth does not know how much time he has lost when his Knight-Corporal digs him out of the snow, but his limbs are numb as he clumsily scrabbles ice out of the joints of his armor.

Knight-Corporal Bryant’s face is drawn, lips a grim line. “Knight-Lieutenant, I fear something dire has befallen us.”

In the sky, above where the Temple _had_ been, is a great, glowing swirl of magical power. Wyeth’s eyes widen. It’s a rift, he’s almost certain, but greater than any he’s encountered before.

He swallows against his dry throat, turns to his Knight-Corporal. Behind Bryant stand Keili, Alain, and Tranquil Helisma.

“Is this all?” he croaks.

Bryant bows his head. “All I could find… alive, Ser.”

Wyeth closes his eyes. Everything he has done to get his people through this war, devastated in one moment.

He looks again to the now empty peak and thinks of Gwythren. As they trekked up the mountain from Haven, he saw curiosity in the Tranquil’s body language and gave them instruction to scout ahead and greet the mage delegation’s leader in Wyeth’s stead.

Now, Wyeth clasps his hands, presses them to his forehead, and prays, prays, prays for Gwythren to be alive. _Though I am unworthy to ask,_ _may the Maker rescind His silence for this one miracle_ , he begs.

He straightens, turns to what remains of his people. Bryant has his shield but no sword and no helm. The mages are shivering, Keili’s expression one of pure terror while Alain looks angry, a rare emotion for him. Helisma simply watches Wyeth, and he knows she expects him to have the answer.

“There were Chantry forces gathering for the Conclave,” he says, rallying his thoughts even as he speaks. He cannot leave his people in doubt. “There must still be some in Haven and around the mountain. We will find them, regroup, and see what we can do to weather this disaster.”

“What about—” Keili bites her lip. “What about Gwythren?”

Wyeth is unprepared for the way the question lances through his heart. He takes a deep breath. He must steel himself, he cannot falter, not with the eyes of his people upon him, depending on him. “It is too dangerous for us to approach the—peak right now. We need to find out what has happened. Until then, we have to trust Gwythren to take care of themself.”

Keili looks doubtful, Bryant grave, but Helisma nods. Gwythren knows how to take care of themself, knows that they _can_. If they are still—Wyeth forces himself to finish the thought—if they are still alive, they will survive.

“Let’s go,” Wyeth orders. They follow.

~

There is a command tent set up on the first bridge they reach. As they approach, a familiar voice calls out, “Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth!”

“Moira!” Keili exclaims.

The Templar grins, pulling the mage into a one-armed hug. Her other arm is secured in a sling, which Keili immediately puts her hands over to heal.

“It is good to see you, Moira,” Wyeth says. Another of his people, alive. Perhaps there are more.

“It’s more than good to see _you_ , Knight-Lieutenant,” she says, gingerly taking her arm from its sling and testing Keili’s healing. “That avalanche took me down a ways; got my arm stuck in some trees when they dug me out.” She ruffles Keili’s hair, drawing a blush. “Thank the Maker for magic.”

“Do you know who’s in command here?” Wyeth asks. He is relieved to see her good humor not affected by the circumstances; they’ll need it for morale.

She nods. “That’ll be Knight-Captain Hadley, in the tent over there. He can direct you where to help.”

“I’ll see to it.” He makes his way over, the mages and Helisma in his wake.

Behind them, Moira’s voice cuts clear through the cold air. “Bryant! Where’s your sword? Come, let’s find you one. There’s demons about!”

The man behind the table issuing directives to gathered Templars and soldiers and arguing with a chancellor is presumably the Knight-Captain, and he looks relieved to see them. “Come to help, I hope?”

“Aye. Knight-Lieutenant Wyeth.”

“Templar, good. Any more of you?”

“Two.”

“Excellent. We’ve got soldiers, of course, but Templars are the best for demons.”

“Mages are even better,” Alain says, chin raised.

The chancellor narrows his eyes, but Hadley only looks at Alain a moment, then back to Wyeth. “I’m afraid we don’t know what’s happening, other than the Temple being blown to the Void and everyone at the Conclave being dead.”

Fear lurches in Wyeth’s stomach, but he does not let it show.

“For now,” the Knight-Captain continues, “we’re just trying mitigate the damage. Lots of people scared, injured. If we can get any civilians out of way of the soldiers and back to Haven so we can organize once the Right Hand figures out what to do, it’d be a help.”

Wyeth nods. “We can do that. Keili here knows healing, and Helisma knows tactics to fight demons. She can advise your non-Templar soldiers.”

“She can stay here with me then,” Hadley says, “and we can get the orders out. Most of our injured people make their way here, so your mage can see to them. Take the rest to save who you can and kill as many demons as possible.”

Wyeth salutes, then turns to his people. Moira and Bryant have appeared, outfitted with weapons. “Moira, you remain here with Keili. She’ll be healing the injured; protect them and her.” Moira nods, tucks Keili under her arm. To Helisma, Wyeth asks, “You will be fine staying with the Knight-Captain?”

She nods without hesitation. “It is where I can best serve.”

Wyeth doesn’t particularly want to let her out of his sight, but she’s correct. “Moira, keep an eye on Helisma, too. Knight-Corporal and Alain, you’ll be with me. Kill the attacking demons and protect any civilians. Move out!”

~

There are few civilians, many demons, and even more corpses. Wyeth is glad Keili stayed with Moira; she would not have the heart for this.

In lieu of civilians to save, they put their efforts into aiding soldiers who struggle against the never-ending slew of demons. Thankfully, these are not too challenging, shades and wraiths mostly. It is likely worse closer to the site of the explosion.

They save a pair of Templars surrounded by shades. The dark-haired woman introduces herself as Lysette and thanks them. Her companion, cradling his injured swordarm, glares suspiciously at Alain. Wyeth instructs them to head back to the forward camp for healing.

Trapped against a steep bank on the frozen river, cornered by a wring of wraiths, they find a Knight-Lieutenant fighting beside two mages. The mage in elementalist robes fights fiercely while his female companion backs the men up with barriers and glyphs. With the help of Wyeth’s team, the wraiths are dispatched in short order.

“Irminric Eremon,” the Knight-Lieutenant says. “Thanks for the help. Any word if Seeker Pentaghast’s figured out a solution to this mess?”

Hadley mentioned the Right Hand was here; perhaps it means they stand a chance of succeeding, after all.

“I’m afraid not,” Bryant says. “We’re just trying to get people to safety, stop the demons.”

“It’s not sustainable,” the elementalist says, wiping at the blood dripping from his broad nose. “The valley’s in chaos, our forces are unprepared, and the Divine…” He shakes his head. “There is no hope for peace now.”

“You don’t know that!” Alain cries. “Already there are mages and Templars fighting beside each other. Perhaps this way people will see that mages can help, that we don’t need to be imprisoned.”

“That may be a tall order, considering magic likely caused this mess,” Eremon says.

“Maybe magic caused this, but you don’t know that _mages_ did,” Alain snaps.

The other mage snorts, leaning on her staff. “Maybe they don’t _know_ , but who do you think will be the first they blame?”

“Enough,” Wyeth commands. “We don’t have time for this discussion. Knight-Lieutenant, get your charges to the forward camp, see if the Knight-Captain has any new orders.”

Eremon nods. “You might check a little further on. I think there was a scouting group.”

“We’ll do that. Knight-Corporal, Alain, with me.”

The elementalist claps Alain on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

They find the scouting group attempting to retreat down the mountain, their way hampered by shades and two lesser terrors. Leading them is a blond elf wielding daggers, and for a moment, Wyeth’s breath stutters as he hopes—but no, there is a spark in the elf that identifies him as a mage.

Wyeth crushes down his sour disappointment and leads his people into the fray.

“Thanks for your help,” the elf says, when the demons are slain. “Name’s Grandin. We came up on orders from the Nightingale to see if there was a safe way into the Temple. No such luck.”

“They’re trying to get up to the Temple in all this?” Bryant asks.

Grandin shrugs. “I heard Seeker Pentaghast might have a plan about closing the demon-spitting hole up there, but she’s going to have to find her own way, if that’s the case.”

“Let’s return to the forward camp for now,” Wyeth says. “Maybe Knight-Captain Hadley will have gotten a better grasp of the situation.” They need to restock on healing potions, anyway, and Wyeth is keen to check on the people he left behind.

The way back is mostly clear of demons, thanks to their efforts, and they make good time. As they approach the bridge, lines of soldiers pass them, heading up the direct path to the Temple.

On the bridge, Keili is dashing between fallen soldiers, a blonde Tranquil a diligent presence at her side. Moira is sharpening swords nearby and looks up at Wyeth’s approach.

“Where are all those soldiers headed?” Bryant asks her.

“They’re making a charge on the Temple,” she says gravely. “The Left Hand ordered half the available soldiers to lead a distraction charge and took the other half with her to the Temple. Seeker Cassandra passed through here a while ago with the prisoner.”

“Prisoner?” Alain questions.

“The person they think responsible for all this—the Conclave, that thing up there—the Breach.” She meets Wyeth’s eyes; her unusually grim expression does not bode well. “Knight-Lieutenant, it’s Gwythren.”

His heart skips. “What?”

“Gwythren is their prisoner. They think _Gwythren_ is guilty.”

“That’s impossible!” Alain cries.

She shakes her head, the curve of her mouth unhappy. “They do not know Gwythren as we do.”

“But Gwythren is _Tranquil_ ,” Alain argues. “They can’t think it’s possible,”

“Why was Seeker Pentaghast taking Gwythren to the Temple?” Wyeth asks in an attempt to curb Alain’s distress.

She looks back to him, brow furrowed. “I think they’re going to try to seal the rift, close the Breach.”

Alain looks ready to loose a fireball. “But Gwythren doesn’t have any _magic_!”

Wyeth puts his hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Alain, go help Keili.”

“But my healing isn’t—”

“You don’t need magic to do what Keili tells you. Go on.”

Alain huffs, but stomps over to Keili and her Tranquil helper.

Wyeth turns back to Moira and Bryant. They are watching him expectantly. “I… will see what the Knight-Captain wants of us.”

Moira frowns, and Bryant asks, “You’re not going after Gwythren?”

It crossed his mind. “There’s little chance I’d catch up to them now. And I won’t obstruct whatever plan they have in place by acting on my own. But Gwythren is alive. Once this is done, we’ll—we’ll figure it out.”

They look dubious, but nod, anyway. Wyeth turns and heads into the command tent. Helisma is there and looks unharmed. Wyeth sighs in relief.

“Welcome back,” Hadley says, cutting off the chancellor still at his side. “Your Tranquil here was a good help. You all make it safe?”

“Aye, Ser. I understand there is a plan underway. Do you need us at the Temple?”

“If you and your men are able and willing, I’m sure we do. Knight-Commander Cullen is leading the charge, trying to bait as many demons away from the Temple as possible so the Right and Left Hands can make it past.”

Wyeth blinks, breathes out slowly. “Cullen… Rutherford?”

“Aye.” Hadley squints at him.

Wyeth thinks it over. If Gwythren survives, it will do them no good if Wyeth and his men are dead. But. Gwythren is going to the Temple. If there is some chance their efforts will help…

“We’ll go. Helisma, you stay here with Keili and… with Keili. We’ll be back.”

She bows her head. “Fight well, Knight-Lieutenant.”

He leaves to gather his people. Wyeth is hesitant to bring Alain anywhere near the Knight-Commander of the infamous Gallows, but they will need every able fighter. He makes sure his men are prepared, tells Keili to stay safe, and they begin their trek up the mountain.

~

The front line is a blood bath. Corpses are strewn across the battlefield, thrown over rubble, piled in the camp from when they still had time to carry the fallen off the field.

The injured are no less numerous. They sit next to their dead comrades in the camp with equally dead eyes as magical debris rains down. Those not too injured hastily wrap their wounds and return to battle.

“Stay close,” Wyeth tells his men. “Alain, focus on barriers and glyphs. Moira, keep the demons off him. Bryant, you flank. I’ll take point.”

Wyeth’s earlier speculation that the demons would be worse closer to the Temple proves correct. There are greater shades, despair and rage demons. A rift hangs over the battlefield, from which the demons pour out, seemingly endless. Just beyond, Wyeth can make out the shadow of the Temple remains and an even bigger rift looming above it beneath the Breach.

 _Gwythren’s there_ , he thinks, and it takes everything in him not to rush forward, past the battlefield to the Temple ruins to find them.

Wyeth’s eyes find Knight-Commander Cullen amidst of the chaos, leading the charge and barking orders. Wyeth and his men fall quickly into the ranks.

They carve their way through the demons. Wyeth doesn’t know how long they are expected to hold the distraction. He deflects a blast of fire, sends out a smite, then scythes through the demon’s chest while it’s stunned. Bryant takes a bad blow to his leg, and Wyeth sends him back to the camp with Alain.

He looks around for Moira, finds her fighting a terror demon with a pair of non-Templar soldiers. He joins them, impales the demon through the throat.

Moira gasps behind her helmet, favoring her previously injured arm. Blood and demon entrails are splattered across her plate. Wyeth opens his mouth to order her to retreat with the soldiers, but she cuts him off. “I can keep going, Knight-Lieutenant.”

They might have no choice. The rift is warping again, accompanied by the splintered howls of emerging terror demons.

Wyeth hefts his shield—

The rift above the Temple contracts, pulses, and a beam of light shoots up into the sky. It collides with the Breach in a blinding flash, and a flare of energy erupts over the mountaintop, tears through the rift like smoke, the demons disintigrating.

Total silence falls over the field, then cheers and Maker-praises rise up from the remaining soldiers. Knight-Commander Cullen calls them back to camp. Wyeth takes Moira’s arm over his shoulder, and they stagger back to their comrades.

Bryant is laid on the ground, leg freshly wrapped, Alain sitting fretfully beside him. He looks up as they approach. “They did it, then? Gwythren did it?”

Wyeth helps Moira sit down. “It appears so.” He prays it is so, prays that Gwythren has survived this.

“Gwyth’s always been special,” Moira says, good humor already restored.

There’s a commotion at the archway into the Temple ruins. Two healers rush past them, carrying a stretcher. Wyeth stands, moves closer. Through the throng, he sees a Seeker—the Right Hand—and in her arms—

“Gwythren!” He’s running before he’s even aware. He pushes through the crowd, shoulders Seeker Pentaghast aside just as she’s laid Gwythren on the stretcher. He rips off his gauntlets, cups Gwythren’s face in his hands. Their skin is blessedly warm, if pale. He feels for a pulse; it beats, soft but steady, like the lazy flutter of a moth’s wings.

Wyeth makes a wounded, relieved noise, leans over, presses his forehead against Gwythren’s. He feels the ridges of the Tranquil brand against his skin, closes his eyes, and weeps.

~

Wyeth sits at Gwythren’s bedside in the hutch provided for their recovery. Over the past three days, Bryant, Moira, Alain, Keili, and Helisma have all come by to check on their friend. Gwythren has not woken even for a moment, and the group has kept themselves busy to distract from their worry.

Wyeth has not moved from Gwythren’s side.

Gwythren’s sleep has not been restful. While their physical wounds healed, the impossible mark on their hand plagues them. Wyeth has never felt any magic like it, and no one can seem to explain its presence or origin.

Gwythren’s eyes flutter open, and Wyeth jolts in his seat. He leans forward, places a hand over theirs. “Gwythren?” he queries, uncharacteristically tentative.

Gwythren’s head tilts toward him. “Knight-Lieutenant,” their voice rasps.

“I’m here, Gwythren, you’re safe. I’m here.”

“I knew you would be.”

Wyeth blinks the sting of tears from his eyes and helps Gwythren sit up, then fetches them a glass of water. As Gwythren drinks, he runs a hand through their curls, limp with sweat, feeling the delicate curve of their skull. “How do you feel?”

Gwythren pauses, cataloguing, rolls their shoulders and flexes their hands. They blink, look down at their left hand resting on their knee. The verdant mark winks up at them. “It’s still there.” A question, and the slightest tinge of shock, colors their voice.

“You don’t know how you got it,” Wyeth says.

Gwythren shakes their head. “My memory of the Conclave is unclear.”

Wyeth frowns. Seeker Pentaghast relayed this much to him, but it is still difficult to believe, even with Gwythren’s confirmation. As far as Wyeth is aware, Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Leliana are no closer to understanding what happened.

A crash draws their attention to a young elf just entering the hutch. “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” she cries.

“Is everything all right?” Wyeth asks.

But the elf is looking at Gwythren, eyes wide and stunned. She falls to her knees, bowing her head over folded hands. “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. I’m certain Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened.”

“Where can we find her?” Wyeth asks.

The elf blinks, as if seeing him for the first time. Getting slowly to her feet, she says, “In the Chantry, with the lord chancellor.” She gropes behind her for the door, eyes once again on Gwythren. “‘At once,’ she said.” And then the elf is gone.

“She’s afraid of me.” Gwythren’s brows are drawn in a slight frown.

“She’s in awe of you,” Wyeth corrects.

Gwythren’s expression clears, and they turn to Wyeth. Wyeth has learned to decipher Gwythren’s blank expression from their placid one. Placid means contentment, blankness uncertainty.

Wyeth smiles. “You have accomplished a feat beyond anyone’s imagination, against a magical threat never before seen.” Wyeth has heard what the villagers whisper to each other: _Herald of Andraste_. For a Tranquil to earn such a title… Gwythren has proven themself remarkable in more ways than one.

“The Breach was closed, then.”

“No, unfortunately. The Hands theorize it will take more power to accomplish that. But it is stable, as is the mark on your hand.”

It may have caused Gwythren trouble in sleep, but it stopped spreading and is no longer a threat to their life.

“Then there will be a trial,” Gwythren says.

Seeker Pentaghast told Wyeth she promised as much, but that was before her doubts of Gwythren’s guilt. “I think that is unlikely, at this point,” Wyeth says.

Gwythren nods. “It would be odd to give a Tranquil a trial.”

“I _meant_ they no longer suspect you of collusion.”

“Oh.”

There is more surprise in their tone than Wyeth likes. “Whatever occurred in the Temple ruins cleared you of suspicion.” He ruffles Gwythren’s hair. “And I set them straight, too.”

Gwythren presses their head into Wyeth’s hand with a hum. “We shouldn’t keep the Seeker waiting,” they say, but do not look inclined to move.

Still, Gwythren is right. Wyeth stands, sets Gwythren’s glass aside, and helps them to their feet. “We’ll get you a bath and some food after this,” Wyeth promises and fetches their boots and cloak.

Well, not _Gwythren’s_. Their clothes were ruined in the fight and whatever else they went through. As such, Gwythren is now clothed in a mis-match of articles donated by grateful villagers.

As Wyeth fastens their cloak, Gwythren tilts their head at him. “You look better without your armor,” they say, as they often do, though Wyeth is sure he must look a mess after three days sitting vigil.

Wyeth smirks, taps his knuckles against Gwythren’s cheek. “Let’s hope someday it won’t be necessary for me to wear it so often.”

“I do hope,” Gwythren says, letting Wyeth prod them out the door. “It’s too heavy on you.” They mean more than just the armor.

When they emerge from the hutch, a hush falls over the villagers as they catch sight of Gwythren. Gwythren twitches against Wyeth’s side.

“To the Chantry,” Wyeth murmurs, urging Gwythren forward.

The villagers part, allowing them unimpeded passage. Gwythren twitches again. As they walk, earnest whispers drift from the crowd:

 **“** That’s him. That’s the Herald of Andraste.”

“They said when he came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over him.”

“Quiet. We shouldn’t disturb him.”

The villagers huddle together, their gazes following Gwythren’s progress. Gwythren’s shoulders flinch, as if to shake them off.

 **“—** stopped the Breach from getting any bigger.”

 **“** I heard he was supposed to close it entirely—”

“—more than anyone else has done. Demons would have had us otherwise—”

“—still a lot of rifts left all over; little cracks in the sky—”

 **“** He can seal those, though—the Herald of Andraste—”

 **“** —someone better. Won’t close those rifts with the Chant of Light.”

Gwythren’s face is carefully blank, their hands tucked behind their back to conceal their trembling. Wyeth rubs a reassuring hand over their shoulder, knowing the attention must be unsettling. Tranquil are largely used to going unnoticed and tend to prefer it that way.

 **“** Why did Lady Cassandra have him in chains?” a villager asks. “I thought Seekers knew everything.”

 **“** It’s complicated,” a priest dithers. “We were all frightened after the explosion at the Conclave.”

 **“** It isn’t complicated. Andraste herself blessed him!”

Wyeth holds open the door to the Chantry. Immediately, he hears raised voices coming from behind a door on the other side of the chapel, growing louder as they approach. The Seeker’s voice is one of them.

“—gone completely mad!” The chancellor, from the command tent. “He should be taken to Val Royeaux at once, to be tried by—whomever becomes Divine!”

“I do not believe he is guilty.”

Gwythren’s head tilts, ears pricked.

 **“** The Tranquil _failed_ , Seeker,” the chancellor’s voice sneers. “The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, it was intended this way.”

“I do not believe that,” the Seeker refutes.

“That is _not_ for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

 **“** My _duty_ is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

 _Encouraging_ , Wyeth thinks wryly and swings the door open, effectively interrupting the argument occurring within. Seeker Pentaghast stands at a table across from the chancellor, Sister Leliana at her side.

The chancellor’s eyes land on Gwythren, and he orders the Templars standing at attention to take Gwythren into custody.

Wyeth reaches for his sword, but Seeker Pentaghast beats him to it. “Disregard that, and leave us.”

The Templars salute, and Wyeth watches them go with grim satisfaction.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the chancellor threatens.

Cassandra advances on him. “The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will _not_ ignore it.”

“You need my help,” Gwythren says.

The chancellor rounds on Gwythren, and Wyeth steps protectively in front of them. “ _You_ have done plenty. Your actions will be taken into account by the new Divine.”

“Have a care, Chancellor,” the Seeker says, voice made of steel. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

Leliana steps forward. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others—” her eyes narrow on the chancellor “—or have allies who yet live.”

“ _I_ am a suspect?”

“You, and many others.”

The chancellor scowls. “But _not_ the prisoner.”

“I heard the voices in the Temple,” Seeker Pentaghast says. “The Divine called to him for help.”

The chancellor folds his arms. “So, his survival, that _thing_ on his hand—all a coincidence?”

Cassandra raises her chin. “Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.”

Wyeth raises a brow. Gwythren tilts their head. “You think the Maker would send someone like me.”

“The Maker does as He wills. It is not for me to say.”

 _The Chantry often claims to say_ , Wyeth thinks bitterly.

“Even if that means a Tranquil is His chosen,” Gwythren says, voice neutral. Gwythren is probing, cautious. They know better than to trust easily.

“Even—” she fumbles her words “—someone like you must have an interest in the fate of the world. No matter what you are, or what you—believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains,” the Nightingale says, “and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.”

“This is _not_ for you to decide,” the chancellor insists again.

The Seeker slams a book down on the table. “You know what this is, _Chancellor_? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She points her finger at the chancellor, pushing him back. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

The chancellor shakes his head and stalks from the room. Cassandra sighs, rubs her neck.

Sister Leliana places her hand on the book. “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.” Her voice softens. “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“We have no choice: we must act now,” Seeker Pentaghast says. She looks to Wyeth, then Gwythren. “With you at our side.”

“The Inquisition of old?” Wyeth asks.

“It preceded the Chantry,” Leliana says. “People who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad.”

“After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order,” the Seeker says.

Wyeth tenses, hand going to his sword. The first Inquisition became the _Templars_ —and now they wish to bring it _back_.

“But the Templars have lost their way,” the Seeker continues.

 _No shit_.

“We need those who can do what must be done under a single banner once more.”

“But you are still part of the Chantry,” Gwythren probes.

Cassandra snorts. “Is that what you see?”

“The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine,” the Nightingale says. “And then it will wait for her direction.”

“But we cannot wait,” Wyeth guesses.

“So many grand clerics died at the Conclave…” The Seeker sighs, then lifts her chin. “No, we are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

“You truly wish to restore order,” Gwythren says.

“That is the plan,” Leliana replies.

Seeker Pentaghast holds out her hand to Wyeth. “Help us fix this, before it’s too late.”

Wyeth narrows his eyes. “That is Gwythren’s decision.”

Gwythren looks to Wyeth. They seek his opinion, to take their cue from him as they often do. But Wyeth _will_ leave the decision to them.

Perhaps finding what they seek, Gwythren turns to the Seeker. They put out their hand and clasp hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated!!
> 
> edits 1.21.21


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